The Lost Boys
by FadingGrin
Summary: Sherlock was an awkward, awkward child that never quite grew into an awkward, awkward adult.


Sherlock Holmes was an awkward, awkward child that grew into an awkward teen and an even more awkward adult. There are some who say that he has not, as a matter of fact, grown up and in a way, they would be right. Sherlock himself might, in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind which do not let him ignore things the way normal people do, admit that he is still rather similar to how he was as a child. And if you were to ask Mycroft, the answer would also be a yes – but a rather tentative one, for Mycroft tends to think himself into knots at times and is not inclined to simply cut through them like Sherlock, preferring to carefully tease them open again. Sherlock Holmes is a curious man-child.

Much of the blame for this lies in the way Sherlock Holmes has always been so very different from Mycroft Holmes. Their mother never did realize that, and when the raising of Sherlock became Mycroft's business, he was barely more than a teen himself. And like any other teen, no matter how precocious and developed, he too resented having to take care of his troublesome little brother in a way that no older sibling should. Mycroft was a very dutiful boy, however, and mother had asked in that wordless, helpless way of hers and so Mycroft delivered. Sherlock was always fed and clothed, given what he wanted to stop him from bothering Mycroft with his antics and tutored to the highest degree in any subject Mycroft found of importance and Sherlock of interest by an ever changing stream of tutors who'd passed a thorough background check. That Mycroft never asked him about his days or opinions or really, about anything, did not register as something of importance to him.

Now, years later, when Mycroft has matured from a sullen, resentful youth to a dangerous, sharp man capable of seeing the full extent of Sherlock's brilliance he feels regret in a way that not many things have managed to cause him. That he, for all his intelligence and charm had not been able to see the harm he was causing his little brother, whom he does love in his own detached way, is a heavy blow to him. For all he knows that it is perhaps too little, too late, he can't help but try to amend his past wrongs by taking care of Sherlock the best he allows him to. That he's never spoken to Sherlock about any of this doesn't really hit him until he first sees Dr. John Watson, a wholly unremarkable man of maybe slightly above average intelligence, which is nonetheless not enough, not nearly enough, who he can see means something to Sherlock – something that he himself had secretly hoped to mean to him for many years now.

Sherlock detests Mycroft and for good reasons, but the first and foremost among them is what he perceives as their extreme similarity in all the things that matter to him. They're both intelligent and ruthless and competitive, and Sherlock sees Mycroft's effortless social smoothness as a façade, as Mycroft intentionally being less than he is. What Sherlock has never realized is that it really, really isn't. Mycroft has an easy, affable manner and he's always had an inherent understanding of social cues in a way that Sherlock simply does not. Actually, in pure contests of intelligence, Sherlock is a little bit faster, the tiniest bit smarter, but Mycroft seems better because he often understands where Sherlock merely knows.

This disparity has heavily colored their respective childhoods. Mycroft had tutors as well, yes, but he went to school with his own age-group, though he may have been bored to tears with listening to airheaded pre-school teachers. He networked, polished his budding politician's skills, simply fit in by understanding about compromise and human interaction. Sherlock did not. He went to pre-school, but it was soon apparent that he did not like it there and he did not gain friends easily like Mycroft. By then, Mycroft was Sherlock's primary caretaker and due to his brother's request he had Sherlock homeschooled all the way until he ran away from home.

Now, when Mycroft looks at his little brother, he sees the same child he was years before, his lip busted and his knees skinned because he wasn't like the other children and thought giving a dissected frog to someone was a good way to make friends. He learned certain lessons the hard way, and never did try to show anyone his projects anymore.

It is John Watson that brings about a change. Something about him draws Sherlock out of his shell of self-induced apathy into the shy, brilliant child that was different from all the rest and became so frightened of the world that he made the world frightened of him instead. Mycroft watches with sad, proud eyes as Sherlock steals an ashtray from the Buckingham Palace, simply because John Watson had implied he wanted it.

It brings an ache to his chest that he'll never admit might be pride to see Sherlock develop and learn, acknowledge the bonds he has created himself and make new ones. Mycroft can see the pleased light in Sherlock's eyes when he turns around and John is there, or when Lestrade texts about a case or when Molly brings him coffee when he has simply asked her with none of the calculating manipulation he is so good at. Not even the camera feeds of questionable quality from the CCTV network manage to mask the glimmer of warmth in Sherlock's usually apathetic eyes during those times. And, well, if his clumsy overtures of friendship to Watson occasionally make her employer chuckle indulgently, Anthea knows better than to mention it. She's a remarkably good assistant that way.

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_I don't own BBC Sherlock and make no profit from this fic, except for any reviews you might be kind enough to throw my way. That said, I'm not sure if I want to continue exploring the theme with further chapters or not, so even though this may be marked 'Complete' it's possible that I'll continue it if I get a good idea._


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